“Use them,” Rautat answered. “They work for us. They teach us things. If they settle down and behave, they live better with us than they would in their own kingdom.”

At the price of exile, of course. Still, when the other choice was getting your throat cut or worse … But Hasso also remembered Scanno, who even in Drammen preferred the company of Grenye to his own folk. Scanno wouldn’t be the only Lenello who thought that way, either. There might not be many, but there were bound to be some.

And Hasso also thought about Japan after the Western powers made it open up in the nineteenth century. What did the world look like to the Japanese then? The little yellow men had to acquire all the skills they lacked, and in a hurry, too, or else go under like the Indians and Africans. And they did it. They smashed the Russians in 1905 – which made Hasso jealous – and they were giving the Americans all they wanted now. The Grenye of Bucovin were in the same boat.

But the Japanese could acquire all the tricks the Americans and British and Russians and French and Germans knew. The Grenye found themselves behind the eight-ball in a way the Japanese didn’t. “Have you got any Lenello wizards in Falticeni?” Hasso asked, not least to see if he could make Rautat twitch.

He didn’t. The native just shook his head. “Not right now. For us, wizards are like holding a sword by the blade. We can cut ourselves, not just the enemy. Somebody who can make spells is liable to try to rule us, not to do what we want. It’s happened before.”

Obviously, it hadn’t worked. “How do you – how did you – stop that?” Hasso inquired, genuinely curious.

Rautat shrugged. “We killed them. Not easy, not cheap, but we did it. Even a wizard has to sleep some of the time.”

“Er – right,” Hasso said. The Man Who Would Be King – he’d read the Kipling tale in translation – didn’t have an easy time of it no matter who the natives were. One of you, lots of them. As long as they don’t believe you’re a god, they can get you. And even if they start out thinking you are, pretty soon they’ll change their minds.

“What can you do for us?” Rautat asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Hasso answered uncomfortably. “I need to see what you can already do before I say.”

Rautat grunted and left it there. That was a relief. If the natives decided Hasso couldn’t do anything useful, wouldn’t they just knock him over the head? But if he did show them things he knew about – gunpowder, say – he’d betray Bottero. And Velona.

He had to think their meeting on the causeway meant something: for him, for her, for the Lenelli, for this whole world. Could he turn his back on that and help these swarthy little bastards against the folk who were bringing civilization, Kultur, to this whole continent? How, if he wanted to be able to live with himself afterwards?

Well, if he didn’t give the Bucovinans a hand, odds were he wouldn’t live with himself afterwards for very long.

Smoke smudged the horizon to the northeast. Pointing to it, he asked, “Is that Falticeni?” If he thought about the landscape, he wouldn’t have to worry about himself. Not so much, anyway.

“That is Falticeni,” Rautat said proudly. “Soon you will see it with your own eyes. You will. Not King Bottero. He runs away like a beaten dog.”

Back in 1941, after the Wehrmacht’s drive on Moscow faltered in the face of blizzards and Siberian troops and the men and panzers had to fall back, the Russians jeered about Winter Fritz, a poor, freezing starveling who was hardly worth the effort it took to shoot him. Rautat, naturally, had never heard of Winter Fritz. But he got the idea all the same.

Hasso’s escort stopped at a farmhouse a few kilometers outside of town. The farmer turned out to speak a little Lenello. He’d never been to Drammen, but he’d visited Castle Svarag, closer to the border. He gave Hasso a bowl of stewed turnips and cheese, a chunk of black bread, and a mug of rye beer. It wasn’t wonderful, but it filled the belly – and it was no worse than what his family ate.

At Rautat’s order, Hasso slept in the farmhouse. That wasn’t for the sake of comfort, but to make it harder for him to get away. The farmer and his wife and sons and daughters all snored. Hasso might have stayed awake an extra fifteen seconds because of it: maybe even thirty.

Breakfast the next morning was the same as supper had been. And after breakfast, it was on to Falticeni.

XIV

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue… Hasso had heard that somewhere, but damned if he could remember where. His first good look at Falticeni, even before he got inside the town, called the jingle to mind again.

The lower courses of stonework on the walls of Bucovin’s capital looked half as old as time. The stones weren’t shaped into neat square blocks; the idea didn’t seem to have crossed the minds of the Grenye who’d put them there. The big gray masses of granite or whatever the rock was had just been trimmed to fit together. And they did. Despite the lichen and moss that had been growing on them for God only knew how many years, they looked sturdy and solid.

Then, suddenly, the wall got five or six meters taller. These stones were squared off. They looked much like the ones that formed the walls around Drammen and other towns in Bottero’s kingdom. Plainly, the Bucovinans had realized the wall they had wasn’t good enough to keep Lenelli out. Just as plainly, they’d learned from the men from overseas that squarish stones were a lot easier to handle than ones left in their original shapes.

And the towers that projected out from the wall might have been copied straight from Lenello fortifications. They gave defenders more places from which to shoot at attackers and to drop heavy things or hot things or pointed things on their unfortunate heads. Even the crenelated battlements were lifted from works farther west. The soldiers pacing those battlements, though, were indubitably Bucovinans.

“It is a great city, yes?” Rautat said proudly.

“It is a great city, yes.” Hasso made it a point never to disagree with anybody who could order him chopped into cat’s meat. It certainly was a big city, anyway. To his surprise, it looked at least twice the size of King Bottero’s capital.

Its entryway boasted a stout iron portcullis. Like the towers, that was an obviously modern addition. Like all the entryways Hasso had seen here – and like all the ones he’d seen at castles in Europe – Falticeni’s had a dogleg to the right. That made attackers trying to swarm through expose their left sides, the side on which their hearts lay, to whatever the defenders could do to them.

Hasso glanced up. No murder hole in the ceiling. The natives hadn’t thought of such a thing when the entryway was built, and excavating one out of solid stone would have been too much work. He couldn’t deny the position was plenty strong without one. Had Bottero’s army reached Falticeni, it wouldn’t have had such an easy time breaking in.

Rautat and the other Bucovinans escorting Hasso went back and forth with the guards at the entryway. The Wehrmacht officer understood not a word of what they said. Their language, of course, was no more related to Lenello than Cherokee was to English. He sighed mournfully. Just when he started getting fluent … he had to start over. Yes, some of these people spoke Lenello. Some Russians spoke German, too. That didn’t mean they enjoyed doing it.

Rautat pointed to him and gave a pretty good impression of a Schmeisser going off. He’s the guy – or maybe, He’s the son of a bitch – with the thunderstick. Hasso could guess what the commentary meant, even if he didn’t know words or grammar. The gate guards looked and sounded suitably impressed. Sure, they were natives, but they were also people. He could read their expressions and their tone of voice. And a whole fat lot of good that may do me, too.